


the way your make-up stains my pillowcase

by majesdane



Category: Degrassi the Next Generation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-06
Updated: 2009-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-04 05:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. <i>She was not made for these kinds of things.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the way your make-up stains my pillowcase

of course i love you. it is my fault that you have not known it all the while.  
\- antoine de saint exupéry, _le petit prince_

**i. first**

Her skirt is too short; it rides up when she sits down, her legs look too pale in comparison to the dark brown fabric of her skirt as she tucks them to the side, perched on the edge of her chair, elbows resting on the table as she glances at her menu.

She watches her from the bar off to the side, eyes trailing down those long, curved legs, as she takes a sip of her gin and tonic, her lipstick smearing ever so slightly on the glass. She sets her drink down with a sigh, turning away from the blond, running her finger lightly in a circle along the rim of her glass.

Standing outside waiting for her ride, she sees the blond staring off to the side, a cigarette placed precariously between her lips, the smoke trailing upwards into the spring air. Alex can't see the girl's eyes; she's wearing sunglasses, designer ones at that, though it doesn't surprise Alex in the least.

Alex watches as the girl removes her cigarette delicately with two fingers, blowing smoke coolly out of her mouth. Alex watches as she taps it once, twice.

The ashes fall to the ground as her ride pulls up in front of the restaurant, and she doesn't look back as she pulls open the door and slides into the backseat.

 

**ii. then**

She does not like them, these after-hours business parties, the kind where she has to spend her entire weekend shopping for yet another little black dress so that she can seem fashionable. Presentable. She always spends the entire party sitting at her table (or the bar, whichever is more convenient) nursing a drink or two (or three or four), watching everyone else socialize.

She was not made for these kinds of things.

But they are important to go to, if she wants to keep her job, and so she relents, despite the inevitable boredom, the re-telling of tired jokes and stories about her co-workers' trip to Cabo or other tourist-ridden places. She would much rather be at home watching TV and eating Chinese takeout.

She has listened to the messages on her cell phone four times by now, has memorized the number of the girl who called her -- Amber -- to tell her that she would not be coming over for drinks (and perhaps more, the message said) after all, as something else had come up, sorry.

The money she leaves on the bar is a line of crisp twenty dollar bills; she doesn't even bother to check to see if she left too much.

In the bathroom she fixes her hair, sweeps her bangs out her eyes, makes sure everything is still in place. In the reflection in the mirror she thinks she sees a streak of blond hair, ducking into a stall off into the corner.

She thinks of the woman in the restaurant, and those cream-colored legs and the brown skirt.

 

**iii. almost**

It's far too early into summer for it to be this hot.

Sweat clings to her body, despite the air conditioning being on, making the sheets stick to her skin in the most unpleasant sort of ways. She shifts in the bed restlessly, unable to sleep. She can taste vodka and cranberry in her mouth; the Cape Cod she'd had before going to bed.

She licks her lips and thinks of the blond girl whose face she can barely recall and whose name she has never known. She trails her fingers along her stomach, then across her thigh. She's too tired and hot to do anymore, though she parts her legs and presses her fingers neatly against herself anyway, for the sake of it.

On other nights she fantasizes about other girls, ones she's brought home with her on weekends, trailing them along with high priced drinks and a thousand dollar skirt hiked halfway up her thigh. But thoughts of the blond leak in, and sometimes she bites down on her lip and presses her fingers just a bit harder, works them a bit faster; anything to rid her mind of her.

When she lies panting on the bed, the moonlight falling across her in thin beams through the curtains, she thinks of how the smoke from the girl's cigarette curled up into the cool spring air, in lazy circles.

 

**iv. last**

A year later and she's forgotten all about her.

She doesn't remember the way her skirt rode up when she sat down with her colleagues, doesn't remember watching her over her glass of gin and tonic and thinking that maybe this was someone she wanted to get to know better. No, she doesn't remember a bit of all this, until one day she's introduced to her at one of the parties she despises so much.

_Paige Michalchuk_, the blond says, and her voice doesn't sound like a smoker's, not yet, anyway. It's light and confident and charming, and as her hand slips into Alex's, shaking it firmly, everything comes rushing back.

She doesn't mention seeing Paige a year earlier in the restaurant, how she stood outside watching her smoke while waiting for a ride. She just gives her the slightest of smiles, just enough to be polite.

In the bathroom she runs into her again; Paige is fixing her hair in the mirror. She looks up and their eyes meet in the mirror. She turns slowly -- too slowly -- and Alex can't stop herself; she steps forward, presses her mouth against Paige's, smearing her perfectly applied lipstick.

Paige falls against the sink and Alex presses harder into her, hands gripping Paige's sides desperately. There are a thousand thoughts running through her head right now, but all she can think about is the memory of seeing Paige for the first time in that dark brown business suit and how Paige's lips are softer than she imagined.

When they break apart, gasping, it's only for a moment.


End file.
